


Geoffrey Chaucer, fic writer (or Why One Should Not Know Where Poets Live)

by major_general



Category: 14th Century CE RPF
Genre: Gen, Rime Royal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:20:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/major_general/pseuds/major_general
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Chaucer goes to Italy, drinks, and reads Italian poetry</p>
            </blockquote>





	Geoffrey Chaucer, fic writer (or Why One Should Not Know Where Poets Live)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [La Reine Noire (lareinenoire)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/gifts).



Whylom, an esquire from England went  
For to seek a connection for his King  
So amongst the nobles and merchants he spent  
His way through Genoa and Florence drinking,  
All the while he, a lover of words, thinking  
That, though he did his duty with much cheer,  
He would that he could read for a year.

Young Chaucer, who, we must say, was not so young,  
Found himself in Italy with two men  
Who liked not the book but did words when sung.  
They enjoyed the court and so they did attend,  
Whilst Chaucer reading in his room did spend  
A merry evening with old friends who long  
Had he not seen, but whose words he heard in song.

Years before he had gone and seen two wed  
As part of his duties to his Lord, there  
He met a man about whom much has been said:  
Petrarch, whose longing for Laura, is nowhere  
Unknown. The two did merrily ensnare  
Most of the food and much of the wine.  
Thus they had a time that could be call’d fine. 

Now finding himself once again i’the land  
Of his erstwhile friend, Chaucer wished to read  
Those sonnets about which he heard and so planned  
His evening in his bed at a much slower speed  
Than any his companions were sure to need.  
Happily Geoffrey took up his friend’s book  
And in its words of love pleasure he took.

But his meditation was not to last  
As John and James into his rooms did shove.  
Joking and laughing, they pulled him up fast,  
Insisting that their deeds he would just love.  
That there in Florence there was a scholar of  
Just the sort of poetry Geoff did praise  
And he they would hear and they would praise.

The subject was Dante; the scholar a man  
Whose praises were sung for his own stories  
Long had he worked so his fame would span  
The whole of Europe for the words, his glories.  
Boccaccio Geoff heard of throughout his forays  
Onto the continent to deal with merchants  
He longed to hear but not at pageants.

So followed he the Italians, Geoff so did  
To the church wherein the master spoke  
Explaining all the symbols Dante had hid  
Within the words that his poem evokes  
Even then they might not be clear to blokes  
Who of this land knew not and who did not  
Concern themselves with its trials a lot.

Geoffrey listened enraptured by the words  
Learning that, through poetry, if one might,  
One can show how men held high are quite turds  
When they pay not attention to the sight  
Of those who struggle and are affright  
By the world and its horrors that nobles  
And clergy the peasants’ deeds do hobble.

After the lecture Chaucer did him seek  
The renowned bard whose discourse had engendered  
Literary notions in the squire and made him speak  
With the learned man. Geoffrey endeavored  
To approach him, and mention that he had heard  
That Boccaccio with Petrarch was friends,  
That Petrarch to the poet would Geoff commend.

Geoff opened with a joke about Dante  
Something light about eternal damnation  
But Boccacio did not seem to want a  
Blemish to be laid on the reputation  
Of the man whose words filled him with elation.  
Chaucer tried again, but his jokes fell flat  
And was left bereft as if the bard had spat.

Geoffrey went back to his rooms and sighed  
He had hoped to make inroads with elders  
But they did not care for his humor, and cried  
That he should not be permitted near betters.  
Chaucer then determined to find letters  
That might tell him the types of verses  
He might use to keep statesmen from curses.

He went to the library of his great host  
And pulled first _Filostrato_ to read.  
Days spent he out of sight as if a ghost  
Reading and rereading the words as if by need.  
The stories were enchanting but the creed  
Was not to his liking, nor to his taste  
Geoff thought they should be rewritten post haste.

The man who had written these bawdy tales  
Resembled not the elder in whose presence  
Chaucer had felt inspired to wail,  
For the story had levity in its essence  
And proved that its author had not ignorance  
Of good humor told to make men think twice  
And realize their deeds might just be nice.

Geoff now determined that Bo should know  
That he had lost what he had once mastered;  
His ribald wit would no longer show,  
But Chaucer knew he still had it, that bastard.  
So off to the bard he went and a bit plastered,  
For wine of this ilk he’d not had since his youth  
When father had it from Naples, in truth.

Upon the good man’s door he did pound  
Not heeding the time, not caring the place.  
He thought not of night or the lack of sound  
And the gentleman opened the door with a mace,  
Which he promptly swung at our hero’s face.  
After realizing who he’d just attacked at the door  
Boccaccio picked Geoff up off the floor.

“Why have you come here at this late hour?”  
Demanded Boccaccio, “I thought my life  
Was in harm.” Geoff’s stomach began to sour.  
He knew in his heart that Phillip’, his wife,  
Would dislike his coming like a thief in the night  
But he could not stand that so funny a man  
Had been reduced to the most witless in the land.

“I read your _Decameron_ and laughed ‘til I cried.  
I never knew plague could inspire in me  
A joy and a longing for those who had died.  
I read all your works. I am not your enemy.  
I just needed to know what had caused this enmity  
Of all you had done with your words and your jests  
Why do you no longer laugh with the best?”

“You stupid boy, get away from my house.  
Your jokes just aren’t funny. You’ve no taste.  
I would sooner be tortured or eaten by a louse  
During the time your prattle would waste.”  
And Geoff could not believe what he faced  
He turned and he marched him back home  
He took to bed with some wine and a tome.

Years later, he thought to himself of the book  
He had loved so much despite its author  
And decided he’d have another look  
At the story which had much to offer.  
It seemed to be lacking. He thought “Why bother?”  
And then came the best idea he’d yet had  
He would make something good out of not quite bad.

Geoff pulled out his board and picked up his stylus  
And told the story as it should have been.  
He made it more awkward, the love artless  
In its execution. He took the sin  
And the tragedy of defeat and in  
The end he made happy of what was sad  
And redeemed those who’d been bad.

His version was better; he knew in his soul.  
He loved the first, but improved the message  
Geoff added Petrarch; he was on a roll.  
He made it so Criseyde her image  
Improved and he wrought out of the wreckage  
A story of love and how it unites  
The world, the tale told in a better light.

And if that bastard Boccaccio didn’t like it then that was his problem for not laughing at Geoff’s jokes.

**Author's Note:**

> I got it in my head that I had to write this in rime royal, even though you said that you did not like pastiche. Of course, what probably happened was that I read your prompt and only remembered the go ahead and write poetry part of your letter. I did, for the most part, stay away from Middle English, as I am not proficient enough in it to compose an entire piece in it (though I did include my favorite ME word and one archaic definition). I fear that this sounds more like Dr. Seuss than Chaucer, but I hope you enjoyed it and that you had a good Yuletide.


End file.
